She mixes the Bengal gram flour, adding fresh garlic, mint leaves, and chopped spinach. The oil starts to boil on the stove. Scooping two fingers full, Ranee drops the mixture slowly into the heated oil so as not to burn herself. She repeats the process again until all the batter is gone, leaving the bowl empty. Once cooked, she gingerly removes the pakoras individually and lays them on a paper towel to help soak up the grease. Removing the frozen mint chutney from the freezer, she runs it under hot water to thaw it. From the pantry she pulls out a tin can full of ghatiya—chickpea flour fried into twists. She adds a dollop of mango chutney to the plate before cutting strips of green pepper and washing the seeds out.
The chai starts to boil over on the stove. She lowers the flame under the soy milk mixed with fresh ginger and cumin. From the refrigerator she removes two methi na thepla, one of her favorite childhood foods from her home state of Gujarat. Whole-wheat flour combined with fenugreek leaves and other fragrant spices. When the girls were young, she would add minced garlic and bell peppers to get some greens into their diet. As they got older, they began to love the flatbread as much as Ranee did. It became Sonya’s favorite; she begged for it every weekend.
Ranee methodically sets the table perfectly for one. Just as she hears Sonya making her way to the kitchen, she pours the chai into a cup. “Good you’re up. I have breakfast ready. Your favorite,” she says, presenting the plate with a flourish. “Methi na thepla.”
“I don’t like thepla,” Sonya says, looking confused. She glances at the elaborate meal. “That was Marin’s favorite. I always liked roti best.”
Ranee searches her memory, as a vague picture comes into focus. A young Sonya at the table. She’s right; it was Marin’s favorite. Sonya would always push the thepla away, asking instead for cereal. If Ranee insisted she eat Indian, then Sonya demanded a plain wheat flour roti, which she could roll up and pretend was a pancake. Now Ranee glances around the kitchen, suddenly unsure. She tries to understand how she could have forgotten such an important detail. “I’ll make you something else.”
“No, it’s fine. This is wonderful. Thank you.” To emphasize her point, Sonya dips a piece of the thepla into the chutney and takes a bite. She wipes the mango jelly off her lip before taking a sip of the chai. “You didn’t have to do all of this.”
“Of course I did. You are home,” Ranee says, as if that explains everything. Returning to what makes sense—what comes naturally to her—she starts to clean. With a dry sponge, she wipes the table clear of crumbs that have yet to fall. She pushes in chairs that have not been touched and rearranges the placemats. It is a table for eight. Ranee bought it the day after Brent fell into the coma. He rarely allowed her to entertain the whole family at once. Now, Ranee will have the freedom to do as she wishes. “I thought we could go visit some aunties. They have been asking about you.”
In the Indian community, aunties are women friends of the family. No blood connection required. Over the years, the practice offered Ranee some sense of comfort. With little to no family in the States to call her own, she appreciated the semblance the moniker afforded.
“All these years, they say to me, ‘Ranee, where is Sonya? She is always on the move, that one.’?” Ranee laughs, an insider on the joke. “I tell them, ‘One day, you will see, she will come home. Where else can she go?’?”